“Beckett and the Heathens” – Episode One

He learned a bit about J.S. Bach when he was in his early stage of development, having taken piano lessons when he was a young lad, and having a proficiency at mathematics and music – according to his Mum – who thought being good at math and playing Bach went hand-in-hand – he went about his studies before him.

His well-intentioned Mum sent him to make the weekly trek two blocks from his home to learn to play Bach from a 60 year old shut-in, whom he thought was simply a drunk who could play Bach when the right amount of whiskey mixed with some sugary substance provided the perfect modulation between sober and drunk that left one unencumbered enough to play Bach freely.

Sadly, his mother was permanently institutionalized when he was 11 years old – thus, he never really got to the bottom of it all – that being; did he really have talent in BOTH mathematics and playing Bach; was the piano teacher simply a drunk and, if not, why was there always the same half empty whiskey bottle on the table next to the piano?

“What kind of shit is this,” he thought out loud, sitting alone at the corner cafe, wondering if any of the food set before him was real.

“Christ, Melvin! When will you chaps start cooking meals that involve real food? This is slop…an abortion! I can get better chemicals at the fast food joint up the street,” he finished, pushing his dinner plate nearly off the table.

“Then maybe you should start eating at the joint up the street then,” Melvin shot back.

“F-off,” Beckett yelled. “Just because you’re my brother doesn’t mean I have to drift in here every so often, only to have my sense of taste, not to mention the inability of my body to assimilate your grotesque offerings of food steeped in chemical goo.”

“How long have you been on the road, Beck?”

“It’s “Beckett”! Christ…we’ve been related for how long and you can’t get into your thick smorgasbord mentality to call me by my full name – the name our mother gave to me?”

“You may be called Beckett when you’re on the road, or giving an interview on one of those high-brow radio stations…but when you’re here, among family, we know you as Beck – the guy who was good at both mathematics and playing Bach, along with a penchant toward unsavory physical fetishes,” Melvin said with a grin.

Beckett took in a deep breath…”Those high-brow radio stations are nothing more than a collection of intellectual voids who repeat the same BS from city to city on the radio dial. They offer nothing more than the vanilla extract of the day. They know little beyond the liner notes their drone producers shove in front of their face each day.”

“Yet they pay your salary,” Melvin laughed.

“They do no such thing. My mind and fingers pay my salary, along with JS Bach.”

Beckett’s thoughts shifted to the lovely temptress seated in the front row during a recent concert. He was convinced she was a government plant of sorts – some demon child sitting there in the front row, shapely legs fully exposed, tastefully clothed in feminine regalia, taunting him to forego his art and magnificent talent to give more attention to that which could lead to his ultimate demise. What a temptress, he thought.

“Haven’t you one of the those digestive enzymes I’ve given you to stash behind the counter to give to those you’ve offended with the daily gastronomical disasters produced here”, Beckett asked.

“We threw them away,” his brother answered.

“Christ!”

It’s 2019 and the world is possibly more deplorable than Christ could have envisioned when he upset the apple cart of the present day shysters and banksters He encountered way back when.

Except, as Beckett made a mental note, Christ didn’t have the likes of the temptress in the front row of his performance of a glorious Bach piece he was performing, presenting him with a salivating taste of how he might lose his mind and succumb to the insanity of the modern era – via the exquisite beauty of skin that Christ’s Father created.

It was then that Melvin brought Beckett’s present thoughts crashing down to the ugliness of the modern era, when he asked:

“How do you survive the shit of life while on the road, yet play Bach to sold-out theaters of those believing in some cerebral form of life that few know of?”

Beckett thought for a few seconds…looked at the chemical offerings of food from his brother’s cafe, and concluded, the modern era is steeped in gross offerings – nothing more than the rot the modern day purveyors of filth offered to their paying customers. Sadly, he concluded, his brother was a conspirator in the insanity of the present day madness.

Then, Gehenna opened its bowels, with the lords of distaste and ugliness from those in control of his livelihood, texting Beckett, telling him that his wandering eye given to the shapely legs in the front row during his recent performance of Bach was unacceptable – an affront to acceptable behavior where one can venture off into all sorts of human depravities, except those that are not approved by the consortium of lunatics running the asylum. In other words, all forms of shittery are allowed – save that of admiring the beauty the human form – whether they be male, female or another.

As he read the text…his only thought was to reply with clarity to the authors of such distaste and political correctness…telling them politely but with no hesitancy… to f*** off!

Whether Bach knew the meaning of the word “f**k”, wasn’t one of Beckett’s concerns presently.

What Beckett did know was that those on the receiving end of his text – that their understanding of life had been permanently homogenized into believing in commercials of pharmaceutical offerings of poison – believing in the poke of vaccines with their chemical lace of offerings that on some cloudy day, might provide health; and that life in the glorious modern era is nothing more than a colossal charade of horseshit – he signed off and looked up to the heavens, telling whomever was up there in charge of earthly festivities, to f-off!

And at that precise moment – she entered the corner cafe, and upon catching a view of Beckett, asked – “weren’t you the piano performing bastard who couldn’t keep his lecherous eyes off my legs at the concert you performed last week?”

Beckett, being a keen observer of all human depravities, frailties; and even of the rare, yet remarkable traits of human taste, love, kindness and talent that can be displayed beyond the putrid blandness that is most of life on planet earth, but only when the moon is full; stepped back, took another look of her legs and entertained his warped thought that possibly no other could understand…with legs that outstanding…she must be able to play Bach better than even he could!